


Downtime

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, M/M, Rough Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:36:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One minute, thirteen seconds," he breathes, open mouthed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Downtime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seperis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/gifts).



> This was written for Seperis, based on her Crimes Against Humanity Series (http://archiveofourown.org/series/41632). Go read that one first because this won't make sense, otherwise.
> 
> Warnings: Violence, Torture, a world where pretty much everyone is a psychopath.

John is leaning back against him, warm and solid and thrumming with eager life, stomach muscles tensing almost rhythmically under Rodney's palm. It's surprisingly chaste for the two of them; just the press and touch of warm skin resting on skin, John melted like Rodney can double for vertebrae, head lolling against Rodney’s shoulder because when John relaxes he turns to putty, turns sweet, even as his teeth worry red marks wherever Rodney lets him.

Rodney is enjoying it, loves it the way he loves every power source he's ever made or found, the potential for destruction and mayhem held together by the fragile skin and bones of his hands alone. John is more finely tuned, more delicately explosive, than anything Rodney has worked with before; it makes Rodney newly appreciate organic sciences.

Below them, Lorne is training new recruits. It's a lovely picture, Lorne with his pretty boy, clean cut smile, casually flipping soldiers that used to think they were the best at what they did. John has standards when it comes to the growing number of men stationed around the base and even with the implants—especially with the implants, perhaps—he wants them all broken to the methods he's used so successfully. A few days from now, once they're healed up from Lorne's increasingly violent punishments, John will take his turn with them.

Rodney can't wait.

John shifts lazily, ass pushing firmly against Rodney's hips. "Watch," he murmurs, hypnotic despite the roughness of his voice. "He'll break his nose, next. They always care so much about their noses."

Rodney thinks about noses and faces and spite, but is easily distracted when Lorne, as predicted, breaks the nose of his current trainee, John lets out a rumble of pleasure, arching until Rodney's hand slips lower, brushing against curls that feel coarsely cool against the heat of John's burning, burning skin.

"Oh," someone says.

He stiffens, jerking his head to the door with a narrowed glance that promises a few hours alone with Carson. He'd left orders, _strict_ orders, that nothing short of invasion, or Elizabeth attempting to resurrect the most recent variation of her cult, was important enough to disturb them. It's been days since they've had this time. Good days, yes, with Rodney working himself ever deeper into Atlantis' systems, fine tuning her, training her while John whispers her quiet and compliant, coaxing her into obedience when he isn't out playing soldier. It's been useful, really, and Rodney is breathtakingly grateful to decide _when_ and _what_ and even _who_ again.

But part of that _what_ and _when_ means leaving it all behind—just for a moment, a few precious moments while a soldier bigger than Rodney doubled in height and bulk whimpers on the floor, holding his nose while his body twitches, implant timed with exquisite precision, and John breathes against his palm.

Honestly, he's not sure which bothers him more. The interruption or the knowledge that someone has seen John, heavy eyed and lightly panting, making those rumbles that means _soon, yeah_ , turning rough uniforms into decadent silk, hard chairs into the most opulent cushions.

"What?" he barks. It's Miko's coding buddy, the girl who follows her around like the meek little china doll Miko looks like, but isn't. Rodney's seen Miko touch this girl's neck, smirking when it immediately bent, blonde hair falling down in waves to hide apple flushed cheeks.

She's flushing now, and pretty with it—Miko has always had good taste—but her eyes aren't on Rodney. They're locked on John, round enough to be placed on a tee and if she doesn't _stop_ looking, Rodney's going to use them for just that purpose.

He growls. He can't help it, and if John asks—which he won't, if the shudder of aroused laughter means anything—Rodney knows exactly who he'll blame it on.

"Is there something you wanted?" John asks. His voice is glazed and roughened with heat, body still languidly rocking into Rodney's—below, the soldier with a broken nose is gifted with a broken leg as well, the bone pressing whitely against skin—and he sounds almost kind. Almost gentle, a kindly man speaking to a scared little girl.

Almost.

She shivers, skin dotting with goosebumps they can see from across the room. "N no, sirs," she says. Her suave attempt at moving backwards turns into a stumble and she falls heavily against the door jamb. It looks like it hurts, and seeing that, Rodney feels somewhat better. "Sorry. I was—I got lost."

John hasn't moved from Rodney's hold, hasn't tensed or done much more than turn his head to look at her. Perhaps it's because she's one of Rodney’s, a scientist that's already firmly brought to heel. Perhaps it's because she's female, a thought Rodney acknowledges without looking at too closely. Perhaps it's something else entirely.

"Take three rights," John says, still in that safe, kind voice, and by now she's practically cowering under the weight of their gazes. "And go down a flight of stairs."

"Y-yes, sir," she says and flees, rabbit feet disappearing down the hallway.

"Three rights and one flight down will put her at one of the gyms," Rodney says. He moves his hand back up to the center of John's stomach, shifting it in circles above the hollow of his belly button.

John's expression flickers, there and back, but the smile he turns on Rodney is smug. "You didn't like that."

"You didn't actually mean to send her to the gym, did you? Because she's one of the fastest coders we have that isn't otherwise occupied and I still need monkeys to get everything settled. Besides. Miko might take it badly and I'd hate to have to mediate between the two of you."

It's an understatement, a huge one—Miko will have to learn to live with disappointment, if necessary—but John doesn't call his bluff. Instead his twists; sinuous and so easy in his own skin that Rodney is briefly jealous, fantastically infuriated that he can't match each lazy move or sprawl. The move puts John's legs on either side of Rodney's hips, John's arms wrapping around his neck and the burn of pressure and friction wipes away anything that doesn't have to do with calculating just how he can position John the way he wants.

“You know they won’t touch her without you to watch,” John says, oblique reassurance that’s a lie, such a pretty lie. They won’t touch her without _John’s_ permission, without John to protect them from Rodney’s wrath. And John wouldn’t do anything unless Rodney asks, a punishment to be given, or a lesson to be learned. John still believes in his own twisted, negative-space version of a soldier’s creed, and indiscriminate pillaging is never high on his list. He’d rather his playthings have a reason. Actually, so would Rodney: the guilty rarely try for multiple escape attempts, caught up in pretty gold scales that chain their minds for more effectively than Rodney ever could.

So. Perhaps not such a lie, and Miko’s sleek little mouse will return to her still smelling of only Miko’s fingerprints.

John licks over his lower lip, distracting, biting it until they both moan. Below, someone is trying to swallow their screams, animal sounds of pain and fear. "You didn't like that, did you, Rodney."

"No," he snaps, "I didn't."

John's biceps aren't hard, but they are heavy, the entire lanky length of him balanced on Rodney's shoulders. "She'd been watching for a while."

Rodney growls again, low and grating and _pushes_ , slamming John up against the glass so hard that his head smacks back, window vibrating even as John starts a rolling, gleeful laugh.

"How long?" he demands, fingers biting into John's hips and back, scratching over what skin his own doesn't cover, creating new scabs they'll both pick at, later. "Did you like her watching?"

John's eyes flutter, dark with promises that match the sounds below. His cock is digging in to Rodney's stomach. Well, good; Rodney's has been hard for ages. "One minute, thirteen seconds," he breathes, open mouthed.

That’s... Rodney doesn't know what it is, whether it's good or bad. All he knows is that he doesn't like it, other eyes tracking the length of John's chest, hearing the way he hitches, sometimes, when Rodney scratches his stomach. It's not that it shows weakness, precisely, so much as—

As Rodney doesn't know. But he doesn't _like_ it.

John leans down, exposing a smear of white on otherwise pristine glass, and kisses the corner of Rodney's mouth. "Forgot about locking the door," he lies, because John never forgets, not these kinds of things.

Rodney accepts it, though, because it's happened and done and he has his own plans to ensure their relative privacy. He allows his mouth to be captured for a fuller, lusher kiss. "I want you on your knees," he whispers.

John hums into his mouth and goes, slithering and sliding easily out of Rodney's hold until he's settled onto the floor, ass and back pressed hard to a window that grows steadily duller, more yellow—Jesus, turning into a one way mirror, hiding them both from view and Rodney has no idea which of them is doing it, but he wants to repeat it, everywhere—as clever fingers open Rodney's already undone pants, tugging him out and directly into John's wet, wet mouth.

God, yes, it's good.

Rodney starts rocking immediately, nudging John with his hips until his cock hits the back of his throat the same moment the back of John's head reconnects with the window/mirror. It's not rough, not really, but steady and slow and loud enough that Rodney—palms flat on the mirror, torn between watching the way John's mouth stretches, sweet and pink, eyes shut so short lashes turn into graphite drawings on his cheeks, or Lorne, who has grown impatient with his current duties and is being less careful—catches several nervous soldiers glance up to their level, trying to track the sound.

Freeing one palm with an annoying sucking sound, Rodney cups John's face: rough stubble and warm skin, the fragile, vulnerable curve of his lips pressed tightly around Rodney's cock. "Hurt?" he asks.

John doesn't roll his eyes, just sucks harder; tongue wicked and knowing and far, far too eager. Rodney laughs, breathless and god, so turned on, certain John will come in his pants if Rodney comes in his mouth, and no, no, he doesn't want that. Having John turned away from the show is Rodney's subtle idea of a punishment, retribution for allowing them to be watched, but there are more cries, now, short ones and sharp ones and long, low, aching ones, pretty pictures that only Rodney gets to see spread out in crimson and bone; just hearing it is enough to make John hum around the cock in his throat and yes, all right, that's enough of that.

Pulling himself free is always one of the hardest things Rodney suspects he'll ever do, in his entire life.

John pouts at him, sullen and disappointed. "Rod _ney_ ," he whines, but gives in to the pressure of Rodney's feet against his calves and thighs, the hands plucking frantically at his shoulders. "Okay, oh— _okay,"_ he says, laughing now. He rises as gracefully as he falls, twisting to fit himself into the bent curve of Rodney's body, hands busy at his own fly. "Yeah, I’m—yeah."

Rodney mouths the back of John's neck, licking up sweat and the lingering traces of someone else's eyes, nipping where the tastes is strongest. "Better," he warns, making certain he'll leave a mark everyone will see and know, swirls of lush blood red that will darken and ache by morning.

Finally, finally John's pants slip down hips too narrow to hold them up without a belt. Rodney's hips stutter forward, pure chance aligning him so that he rides along the groove of John's ass, forcing it open as he ruts two, three times, the instinctive burn to take, to force, caught metallic and bitter at the back of his throat.

Eventually, observation breaks through the haze of John widening his legs, arching his back perfect, so very perfectly, his own cock leaving smears of precome on the window, letting Rodney fuck the crack of his ass.

"You're slick," Rodney accuses.

John's laughter is fire cracker bright, bursting out so fast that Rodney's chest feels the impact of it, because it is innocent, gleeful, things John never is with anyone else but Rodney, something Rodney intends to make absolutely sure of. So many others have broken—tried to break—John with pain, with humiliation, with duty and obligation, with money and increasingly extravagant bribes.

Rodney has trained him to an arm that covers him when he sleeps, stories of death murmured against the pillow beneath the curve of his ear, hands that bind together his hurts and make him come, over and over, and a mind that balances on the fulcrum of Rodney's presence by his side.

His way works much better.

"Duh," John says, the faintest California drawl sparking something deep and powerful inside of Rodney.

He bites the back of John's shoulder, teeth banging into bone, even as he finally frees another suction cupped hand and guides himself inside, pushing and shoving, flattening John against the window while he gnaws red marks like the pox all over John's back. He fucks with hard, short, sharp thrusts that impact against the window, both of them moaning: Rodney with his mouth full, John echoing coldly off glass.

John is hot, always so hot, silky and tight as he accepts Rodney inside him. His body stays pliant despite the tension that vibrates against Rodney's chest, legs scratching each others legs, arching into each thrust until he stiffens, letting out a slurring, liquid sound.

Rodney readjusts just slightly and then he's back to fucking, his still free hand roaming up and down John's chest, attacking nipples, navel, knuckles knocking hard and loud against the window even as John arches his body back, allowing Rodney to touch wherever he wills.

"Come first," Rodney says, wanting that near punishing tightness before he finds his own release. John moans, still slurred, rocking back as hard as Rodney pushes inside. Neither of them touch his cock, John because he's starfished, arms stuck to glass that won't let him go until Rodney does; Rodney because he knows what the chill glass is doing to John and wants John to know it, too, wants him to feel what Rodney has already learned from nights of bloodied fingers and rough blankets, words whispered away from anything resembling metal.

John comes with a shuddering groan, painting arcs that Rodney will make sure no one cleans onto glass that he thinks he's probably a little in love with. John doesn't stop making noise after he comes, though, pitch going higher and softer as Rodney continues to fuck him, past the incredible tightness that borders on pain, into a body that grows heavy with pleasant lassitude, falling back against Rodney's with an openness that belongs only to him, only to Rodney, who hears the hitch in his own breathing right before the backs of his eyes light up and John pushes his ass back, accepting, and squeezing Rodney through one shuddering aftershock after another.

They're both panting hard enough to wheeze when they're done and Rodney's knees ache, sharp notes of agony he knows better than to discuss. They carefully unstick themselves from the window and stumble into a chair Rodney suspects wasn't there before. It doesn't matter, because John is straddling him, naked and beautiful, chasing after his mouth with playful determination as they kiss and kiss and kiss, the lights above them going low as Atlantis offers a silvery, looping ribbon on top of her expert wrapping.


End file.
